“Yes, sir.”
Pitt lingered near the ore pile, straining to overhear the conversation while his cart was filled. He watched as Bolcke turned his back on Gomez and walked toward his residence and Gomez returned to the ship.
“The Adelaide’s headed out in a few days,” he said to Giordino. “I think we need to be aboard when they shove off.”
“Fine by me. I just don’t want to go as a piece of toast.” He tapped his steel collar.
“I have a theory about our dog collars,” Pitt said. He fell silent when Johansson emerged from the bush, cracking his whip.
“Pick up the pace,” he yelled. “You’re falling behind the mill.”
The laborers quickened their movements, none making eye contact with him. Johansson paced the dock area until he spotted Giordino, pushing a fully loaded cart and limping. The bullwhip snapped, striking Giordino in the back of the thigh. “You, there. Get a move on.”
Giordino turned and gave him a look that could blister paint. His knuckles turning white as he pushed, Giordino propelled the ore carrier ahead as if it were an empty grocery cart. Johansson smiled at the display of strength, then wandered off to berate another group of laborers.
Pitt followed Giordino along the path to the millhouse. It ran parallel to the twin white lines alongside the dock, and Pitt gradually eased the cart toward the nearest line. When he approached within three feet, he began feeling a tingling in the collar. He took a quick step and pulled himself onto the cart for a moment as it rolled along. The tingling immediately ceased. He veered the cart back onto the path, catching a brief shock as he pushed off with his foot. When he caught up to Giordino, Pitt was smiling.
After a brief lunch of cold fish stew, the two men were led into the millhouse, where they were assigned to feed the ball mill—a huge metal cylinder mounted horizontally on rotating gears. Crushed ore was fed into one end, where it would collide with hardened steel balls housed inside as the cylinder rotated. The balls pulverized the ore into a near powder, which was filtered out the opposite end. The mill rumbled like an overgrown washing machine loaded with marbles.
The raw ore that had been transferred from the dock was piled in large mounds along the open side of the building. A short conveyor carried the ore to a raised platform built over the ball mill, where it was manually fed into the device through a large funnel. A guard ordered Pitt onto the platform to feed the mill, while Giordino joined another man shoveling ore onto the conveyor.
The work was less strenuous than the hauling. The ball mill took time to digest the ore, which allowed frequent rests for the laborers. During one of these intervals, Johansson made an appearance. The overseer entered the far side of the building, lingering at the back end of the ball mill, where workers collected the powder in more carts and transferred them to the next staging area. The mill guard stepped over and joined him in a brief discussion of the output.
A few minutes later, Johansson walked the length of the ball mill. For once, his hands were empty, the rawhide lash coiled to his belt. As he approached the feed piles, he spotted Giordino and the other worker seated on one of the mounds. Johansson’s face flushed, and his eyes bulged with rage.
“On your feet!” he screamed. “Why aren’t you working?”
“The ball mill is full up,” Giordino said, casually pointing to the spinning cylinder. He remained seated while his companion jumped upright.
“I said, on your feet.”
Giordino tried rising, but his injured leg lost its footing, and he buckled to his knee. Johansson lunged forward, catching Giordino before he could recover. Grabbing a shovel wedged in the ore, the Swede swung it hard, aiming for the bum leg.
The blade connected with a whack, striking just above the wound on Giordino’s thigh. He collapsed as blood began seeping from the reopened wound.
Standing on the platform, Pitt had seen it coming but could not react in time. His own shovel in hand, he took a quick step across the platform and leaped off the edge. He fell toward Johansson but was too far away to land on him. Instead, he swung the shovel in a chopping motion as he fell, stretching his arms and aiming at Johansson’s head.
The shovel missed the overseer’s head but struck his left shoulder hard. Johansson winced and spun around as the shovel bounced away and Pitt landed hard at his feet. Still gripping his own shovel, Johansson took a swipe at Pitt. Trying to rise, Pitt was forced to fling himself backward, and he caught a glancing blow on his side as he rolled toward the ball mill.
Pursuing like a rabid animal, Johansson was above Pitt instantly, raising the shovel for a vertical blow to the head. Pitt rolled beneath the spinning gears of the ball mill as the shovel head smacked the ground beside him. Pitt reacted in turn, grabbing the shovel’s wooden handle to prevent another blow. Johansson tried to jerk it away, but his left arm was numb from the earlier blow and he didn’t have the strength. Changing tack, he pushed the handle down while diving onto Pitt.
The big Swede weighed seventy-five pounds more than Pitt and landed like a rock. The impact knocked the breath from Pitt’s lungs. Johansson managed to wedge the shovel handle beneath Pitt’s throat as he landed and applied his full strength to choke him.
Pitt struggled to push the handle clear, but he was pinned in an awkward position. As the handle pressed tighter against his throat, he noticed a large gear of the ball mill’s drive system whirring above his head. Pitt bucked and twisted, trying to throw Johansson against the gear—or at least to break his grip on the shovel.
It was no use. Johansson didn’t budge, and he focused all of his energies on choking the life out of Pitt.
A pounding sensation exploded in his head as Pitt began gasping for air. A wave of desperation fell over him, and he let go of the handle with his right hand and reached up toward Johansson’s waist, groping for his sidearm.
But Johansson’s pistol was holstered on his opposite hip. Instead, Pitt felt the coiled bullwhip hooked to his belt. He grasped the whip, pulling it free, but he began to sag as spots blurred his vision.
Then a loud whack filled his ears, and the choking eased, if only for a moment.
Giordino had crawled within throwing range and was pelting Johansson with clumps of ore. A hard chunk, driven by Giordino with the velocity of a major league fastball, struck Johansson behind the ear. The Swede grunted and turned toward Giordino, ducking as another rock came flying by.
The distraction gave Pitt time to catch a breath of air, which cleared his vision. Seizing the moment, he whipped up his free arm and looped the bullwhip around Johansson’s head.
Johansson retaliated by releasing the shovel and throwing a right fist at Pitt’s head.
Pitt could do nothing to deflect the blow, as he was reaching up with the handle of the whip. As the blow struck his face, he jammed a lanyard ring on the handle into the gear teeth spinning just above him.
The punch nearly knocked Pitt out, but he remained alert enough to see the coiled whip tighten around Johansson’s neck and jerk him upward. As he flailed to break free, the huge toothed wheel carried the Swede up onto its rotating surface. A hoarse scream passed from Johansson’s lips as he was dragged by the neck to the machine’s opposite side.
At its base, the external gear engaged with the flywheel from the ball mill’s 800-horsepower motor. Johansson fought to escape, but was pulled into the rotating gears. The meshing metal teeth chewing through the leather whip and then into the flesh of the overseer’s neck. His screaming ended, and the rotating gear spit a thin line of red across the room. The machine bucked and slowed a moment, then revved back up to speed. Beneath the gears, a pool of blood spread across the floor from Johansson’s decapitated body.
Pitt climbed to his feet. The guard at the other end of the mill had finally taken notice and began running toward him.
“You really gunked up the works this time,” Giordino said, grinning despite his pain.
“Thanks for the assist.” Pitt moved quickly toward him. “You okay
?”
“Yeah, but the leg’s leaking again. You better take a solo run.”
The guard was now yelling at Pitt while attempting to draw his weapon.
Pitt nodded at his friend. “I’ll be back.” He dove under the conveyor belt as a burst of gunfire echoed through the building. Giordino casually tossed some crushed ore across the floor when the guard rushed after Pitt. His eyes focused on his quarry, the guard slipped on the ore and fell halfway to the floor.
Pitt used the opportunity to spring from the opposite side of the conveyor and dash out the end of the building.
A late spray of gunfire followed him as he cut around the corner and ducked into some nearby foliage. Trapped on the five-acre island, he had no illusion about being able to remain concealed for long. The gunfire had already attracted the attention of several nearby guards.
Pitt needled his way through the brush, using its cover to move well clear of the millhouse. The pursuing guard exited the building too late to see him and was forced to sweep the area slowly as he called in support.
Pitt angled through the bush until he reached the cart path. Then he sprinted toward the dock as fast as his weakened legs would carry him. The path soon opened onto the dock and the remaining pile of ore. Plugrad and a few of his men were shoveling their way through the pile.
As he came off the path, Pitt held his breath, knowing he had only one means of escape. As he caught sight of the men, he saw what he was looking for. With renewed urgency, he stepped up his pace, pushing aside the thought that if his assumption was wrong, he would soon be dead.
58
PLUGRAD LOOKED UP FROM A SHOVELFUL OF ORE IN his hands when Pitt came charging down the path, pointing past him.
“I need one of those,” Pitt yelled.
Plugrad looked behind him and saw a trio of ore carts. The men around him stepped out of the way as Pitt approached. Without slowing, he ran to a lightly filled cart and shoved it toward the dock.
“The white lines!” Plugrad said, but Pitt shook him off, driving the cart forward with all the force he could muster.
On the dock, a lone guard assigned to Plugrad’s work detail had been on his radio and didn’t react until he saw Pitt thrusting the cart toward the electric lines. He swung his AK-47 toward Pitt and fired a burst.
The poorly aimed shot chewed up the dust by Pitt’s feet, inciting him to push harder. The cart’s front tires crossed the first white line, and he began to feel a tingle in his neck. The cart was now rolling freely. As the pain began to amplify around his throat, he leaped and dove inside.
He tumbled onto a small mound of ore as the cart’s rear tires crossed the line. Fifty thousand volts should have surged through his collar, killing him instantly. But the electrical charge had to find a path from the buried line to the collar. The fat rubber tires of the ore cart failed to conduct the charge, and the shocking sensation vanished from Pitt’s neck.
Fortunately for Pitt, the ground was level and the cart continued rolling, crossing the second white line onto the dock. Another burst of gunfire sounded, and Pitt burrowed into the ore at the bottom of the cart. A spray of holes punctured the sides just above his head as the guard took better aim. Pitt caught some shrapnel from an exploding chunk of ore but otherwise escaped injury.
The cart bounded across the dock, then smashed into the raised lip at the water’s edge. Pitt looked up to see the Adelaide moored above him. Ejecting himself like a jack-in-the-box, he dove out of the cart and over the side of the dock, splashing into the water below.
Caught by surprise, the dock guard didn’t fire until after Pitt disappeared. He ran to the edge and aimed his rifle at the concentric circles created by Pitt’s splash—and waited for him to surface.
Pitt struck the water near the aft end of the Adelaide, which had been backed into the inlet. He dove deep before turning and swimming hard toward the stern. The murky water offered a few feet of visibility, and he easily followed the hull’s dark contour until it tapered back and a large bronze propeller appeared.
An expert diver, Pitt was comfortable in the water and could easily hold his breath for more than a minute. He took a few more strokes past the ship and angled away from the dock. Though he was good for some additional strokes, he stopped and eased toward the surface, giving a sudden kick just before he broke for air.
His head burst from the water, and he took an easy stroke toward the far shore before grabbing another fresh breath of air, then pulled himself under. He spun and kicked down as fast as he could, swimming back toward the ship, as a spray of bullets struck the water above him.
While Pitt was in fact backtracking, the guard had bought his feigned motion to shore and aimed his shots accordingly. The gunman stopped firing long enough to yell to two approaching guards. “Cover the far shore. He’s headed over there.”
The two men ran to the head of the inlet, scanning the water for Pitt to surface.
But Pitt had already returned to the Adelaide and was swimming along her outboard hull. It was a demanding swim down the length of the big ship, which Pitt conducted underwater, surfacing quickly a few times for air. When he reached the relative concealment of the bow, he scanned both sides of the ship.
Teams of guards with dogs were beating through the jungle on the far side of the inlet. On the dock, the guard who had fired at him was speaking with another gunman while pointing at the water. Pitt saw few safe places to hide, and his position off the Adelaide was too exposed for him to remain there long.
A short distance ahead of the freighter, a small crew boat had been docked. The boat was secured with a thick chain, however, which was locked to a dock cleat. Between the two vessels a rusty ladder led up to the dock. That gave Pitt an idea. Ducking underwater, he swam to the base of the ladder in one breath. Pulling himself up a few rungs at a time, he peered over the edge of the dock—and saw the two guards running toward him.
He dropped down the ladder, surprised he’d been detected. As he was about to dive underwater, he hesitated at the sound of boots clanging on metal. He looked up and saw the men race up the Adelaide’s gangway and head to the stern. They’d not seen him after all.
The dock was now empty, and Pitt made his move, jumping up and sprinting across its width. He eyed a storage shed near the crew boat and reconsidered escaping by water. There would be tools inside the shed, something he could use to free the boat. But to get there without being seen, he’d have to loop his way through the brush.
He made it to the jungle fringe and cut across a small footpath. Following the path around a thick cedar tree, Pitt suddenly ran smack into another man rushing from the other direction. The men bounced off each other and fell hard to the ground. Pitt reacted first. He sprang to his feet, then paused when he recognized the other man.
It was Bolcke, wearing pressed slacks and a polo shirt. The Austrian was slow to get up but wasted no time in ripping a handheld radio from his belt and pressing it to his lips. “Johansson, the escaped slave is near the northern dock.”
Pitt shook his head. “I’m afraid Johnny the Whip won’t be making any more house calls.”
Bolcke stared at Pitt as his radio call was met by a long silence. Another voice came on and spoke to Bolcke in hurried Spanish. The Austrian ignored it as he stared at Pitt.
“Just stay where you are.”
“Sorry,” Pitt replied, “but I’ve decided to check out of your sadistic hotel.” He could hear voices coming from the dock and movement farther up the path, which Pitt now realized ran from Bolcke’s residence.
“You’ll be hunted down and shot.”
“No, Edward Bolcke,” Pitt said, staring at the old miner with contempt. “I fully intend to come back for you.”
He turned and dove into the jungle, scrambling from view seconds before a contingent of guards appeared. Seeing Bolcke, they sprinted up to him.
“You reported seeing the escaped slave?” one of them asked.
Bolcke nodded and pointed at Pitt’s tra
il, then tossed his radio at the man. “Have all available guards converge here right away,” he said. “I want that slave brought back to me within the hour. Dead.”
59
TWIGS SNAPPED AND BRANCHES SWAYED AS PITT bulled through the thick brush. He didn’t know how many men were on his trail, and since he couldn’t move both quickly and quietly, he abandoned caution and simply advanced as fast as he could.
He kept to the strip of natural vegetation that was contained by the dock on one side and the road to Bolcke’s residence on the other. When the brush narrowed and a pair of white lines appeared to his left, he knew he had to change course. He wound his way to the edge of the road, ducking under a fern and holding his breath as a golf cart with several guards careened by. The instant it was out of view, he bolted across the road and into the opposite thicket, heading deep into its cover.
After only a few dozen yards he came to a stop. Beneath a rocky ledge, the lake appeared in his path. Pitt now realized Bolcke’s compound had been built on a narrow peninsula. His only hope of escape was to travel the length of the peninsula without being detected and flee into the expanse of landscape that lay beyond.
Breathing heavily, he pressed forward, slowing when one of the extraction facilities blocked his way. As he crept to one end, he saw a guard circling the building. He threw himself to the ground and snaked his way around the end of the building, then rose and sprinted into the jungle. At the base of a small mahogany tree, he sank to the ground and rested.
But his respite was ended by a sound that shocked him back onto the run. It was the shrill bark of attack dogs, making their way in his direction.
Pitt had seen guards patrol with Dobermans, and once with a German shepherd, but he had put them out of his mind. Now clear of the compound, they would be his most dangerous challenge.
The volume of their barking told Pitt they were no closer than the extraction facility, giving him hope that he had a safe head start. He could only trust that they didn’t have a specific scent to follow.
Dirk Pitt 22 - Poseidon's Arrow Page 29